


Bleeding Scars

by Acxa_Kogane



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst, April 27th, Batfam - mentioned - Freeform, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, One Shot, Past Character Death, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23936884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acxa_Kogane/pseuds/Acxa_Kogane
Summary: It started again this year. Same as any other.That burning fire accompanied by the feeling of something being ripped out of you, all the tendrils and roots you didn't know were there getting torn out of your being with no regard to the cleanliness of their exit. The phantom dribble of blood down your back as your lungs reflexively implode on themselves, adding to the cacophony of pain that's everywhere.
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain & Bruce Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Jason Todd
Comments: 26
Kudos: 94





	Bleeding Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is for Jay's death day. I had finals and computer problems so I did not get to post it on the 27th, but now those are over with (thankfully) and I can share this crazy idea that was flying around in the mess that is my brain.

It started again this year. Same as any other. That burning fire accompanied by the feeling of something being ripped out of you, all the tendrils and roots you didn't know were there getting torn out of your being with no regard to the cleanliness of their exit. The phantom dribble of blood down your back as your lungs reflexively implode on themselves, adding to the cacophony of pain that's _everywhere._

The open, gaping, raw wound left exposed for all the world to see. The ripped tissue and torn muscle, mangled irreparably as blood paints a brutal poem, dripping everywhere;

_wingless, crushed, broken_

_flight that's stolen forever_

_banished from the sky_

_boy with bloodied scar_

_soul carved out by cruel death's blade_

_left to fall once, twice_

_he watches them fly_

_abandoned and forgotten_

_they never look back_

The scars are always there – not that anyone else would see them but him. Sometimes they're mostly healed, just two deep trenches in the plain of his back. It was already marred by a million other marks of past battles – but none cut so deep as those from the battle he didn't win. The fight he didn't survive.

Other days, the scars aren't scars as much as wounds. They're harsh and sore, bruised and tender as they scrape and chafe against his clothing. They aren't physical, they aren't visible to the billions of other people on the planet. But the pain, the indescribable torture that emanates from those wounds, _that_ was real. Even if anyone else who looked at his back would just see a patchwork of scars stretched like a spiderweb across his skin, their eyes gliding right over the gouges that provide him with such acute pain.

The worst days are ones like today. When they drip blood and scream in silent agony and it feels like he's back in that warehouse all those years ago. Like he's been pulled apart again and left gasping for air, weak, helpless. A broken bird on the cold concrete.

Waiting for the maniac to swing his crowbar again. Waiting for the impact that would knock him out of this world. Waiting to die.

But instead, that haunting noise just shivered through him. That hysterical laughter, malicious and gleeful and _terrifying_. The sharp, cruel jeering, mocking, taunting. That voice that has ruled his dreams ever since, echoing endlessly in his mind, the pit taking it and twisting it to a thrilling crescendo created to drive him insane.

How the Joker had done it, he never knew. The psycho had managed to rip out his wings, when Jason hadn't even known he had them in the first place. When they were yanked out of him, he wanted to die. Something in him had been severed. Something he didn't know could be stolen was dragged out of him, shredding and ripping him apart inside as it left.

Joker had noticed this. He'd complained about Jason not being any fun anymore. What came next was almost worse. Joker started beating his mother with that same bloodied crowbar. He was too lifeless to do anything but lay there on the floor and listen. She screamed and cried, and then let out one final shriek. He'd never quite heard another noise like that scream. Then it was quiet, aside from the dull thud as her body hit the floor. Even then, even through his pain, he knew whatever Joker had done to him, he'd done to her as well. Her wings were gone.

For reasons he never knew, he wasn't granted that same mercy to die instantly. Instead he suffered there for hours as his body slowly shut down. It felt like his life was draining out the holes in his back, leaving him hollow and empty. The bomb went off before he could finally fade away. At that point, he'd been wishing it had gone off and ended him sooner. His last moments were filled with the sound of a long beep, relief that he was finally done, and a massive, blinding impact.

Gripping the edge of the bathroom sink for support, he raised his head to see himself in the mirror. Black hair, with a white streak through it that dangled above his eyes. His stomach churned as he remembered what they'd whispered it meant back at the league. _Soulless._

He swallowed, looking down slightly from his locks to his eyes, meeting those of his reflection in the cracked glass. They were dyed a acidic lazarus green. They used to be blue. His Ma always said they looked like the ocean had married the sky, and his eyes had captured the moment they met. Now that had all been drowned out, washed away when he died and filled back up again with the glowing waters of insanity that had also granted him back his life – if you could call this kind of existence "life."

Taking a deep breath, he turned his eyes towards the most painful part of his reflection. The gaping expanse of nothing behind his back. The place his wings should have been.

He'd never seen his own wings. Only people who have had a near-death experience seem to see them. And not everyone who'd been in that situation would. Those that did usually seemed only to catch glimpses of them at times, usually of their close friends and family. Just a moment, gone in an instant, but there for that fraction of time nonetheless.

Jason could almost _touch_ them. He always saw them. Always saw the _others'._ Never his own. His were just two bleeding scars in his back where something akin to his soul had been ripped out.

 _Don't think about it_.

Dick had wings. They were long and graceful, aerodynamic and swift, allowing him to make those tight turns and glide so easily in the air. If Jason didn't know any better, he'd say that Dick had been born with wings and known how to use them from the start. Dick could fly with his wings, something most people had never learned to do. Ironically, Dick himself didn't even know he could, seeing as most people _couldn't_ see their wings. But everyone knew Dick was at home in the air. If only they could see him through Jason's eyes. The brilliant sapphire blue shade of his feathers, the way they caught the light and _shone_ in the sun, and the way they deepened to a dark, plunging blue at night, when the light of day had long disappeared over the horizon. The streak of happy bright blue that curved across his wingspan, reaching from tip to tip, the same shade as the stripe of his Nightwing suit. Those feathers didn't seem to dim, even at night, always glowing their happy blue. And finally the royal gold feathers that were scattered and hidden among the rest. Jason had teased Dick about his discowing suit with the gold feathers. Little had he known that golden boy _actually had_ golden feathers of his own that shone just as brightly as his grin.

Barbara's wings were a stunning fiery red, the same color as her hair. They flashed under the sun and under the shine from her screens alike. Her paralysis hadn't diminished their glory. Jason was still always caught off guard by how brilliant they were. If he had to describe the way light seemed to turn to liquid flame in her feathers, or the way a stream of sunlight at the right angle could turn the golden undertones of that fiery red into a molten gold, he would say they looked like the wings of a phoenix. The bird was appropriate for her. Soaring above the world, then targeted, attacked, and left for dead, only to rise up again in a blaze of glory – even stronger than before, the comparison fit her well. When Jason had first seen her wings, it had been in the cave. There had been some high-threat emergency that had lead the Bat to gather all potential allies to the cave. Barbara had rolled in, and while most people would mistake the way he froze for shock at her chair, he had instead been stunned by her flaming, blazing wings that glowed even in the dim underground light.

Batman's wings were _not,_ as some might presume, large bat's wings, as ironic and amusing as that would be. No, his wings were pitch black for the most part, the insides and tips dissolving into shades of gray. They were large and intimidating when closed, and when _open_ , their wingspan was awe-inspiring, possibly the largest Jason's ever seen. The trademark cape was _nothing_ compared to the intimidation factor of his actual wings. He'd seen when B had gotten upset, when he suddenly seemed more intimidating, and his wings had flown out, daring the other person to oppose him. And he'd seen how Dick's, Tim's, Damian's wings had drawn in close reflexively, cowering under the looming shadow of Batman's. Sometimes he wondered how his wings had reacted to B when he was Robin. If they'd also shrunk behind him, if they'd betrayed the half irrational fears that sometimes flared up in him. He liked to think that they didn't. That they'd dared to challenge the Batman and spread out aggressively in return.

Too bad he'd never find out. Because they were gone.

Steph's wings flared out against Batman sometimes. Hers were lighter and reminded him of a small bird that twists and darts about from branch to branch, full of energy. Not a hummingbird, but perhaps that of a sparrow. The wings themselves were a light brown with darker brown specks, her feathers somewhat striped, especially the longer ones at the bottom. There was a coat of light golden brown that stretched across the top of her wings. Unlike some of the other members of the batfamily, her wings weren't as spectacular. They weren't colored in exquisite shades. Just gentle browns and light golds. Common, not unlike the wings of the rest of the world. Something about that comforted him. Perhaps it was the fact that someone who wasn't "special" could stand up against Batman, that they could fight against everyone else and their misconceptions and prove that they were worth it. That they were just as valuable as any other person.

Maybe his wings had looked like hers. Maybe his had fought back against Batman's as well. He would have liked that.

The pain in his back flared again. He grit his teeth and looked back down at the sink, trying to pretend that there was nothing wrong. That it was all in his head. It wasn't, of course. But trying had to count for something, right?

The replacement probably would have some Star Wars line to quote at him if he'd ever said that out loud.

His replacement – Timothy Drake (ha), or Tim as he liked to be called, had practically been born for the role of Robin. His wings were, when he was younger at least, a light brown with hazel feathers. They were more curved and rounded at the ends, and they looked for all the world like a robin's wings, the tips fading to more of an ivory white when they'd spread out to fly. That was when he was Robin. Jason had seen them the first couple times he'd tried to kill the kid. He didn't care try to touch them though. Even if it didn't seem fair that they were so innocent and perfect and _easy to break_. The pit whispered it wasn't fair this imposter, this replacement, got to have such pretty little wings when Jason's had been stolen. But he'd left them unharmed.

The boy had not much later changed from the role of Robin, to that of Red Robin, and his wings changed alongside him. For one, they darkened. The outer feathers shifted from a lighter grey-brown to a darker coffee brown, transitioning over time before stopping at a dark gray that looked black in low light. But under his wings, where there had just been lighter browns and ivory, now there were darker shades of gray – with a bright red burst at the base that spread out and faded slowly into the darker tones. Their shape changed as well, becoming a bit more aerodynamic, slicing through the air instead of flapping about.

Jason tried to not be bitter about the fact the kid was clearly meant to be Robin. Even when his wings changed, they'd just changed from the wings of the smaller robin redbreast, to that of a stylized version of the American robin. Not that anyone but Jason would see this or care a whit. It just felt like a continued offense. That not only was he replaced, but the kid he was replaced with was the one who was meant to be there the whole time. Jason had barely been dead before Tim just glides into the picture, Robin's wings smoothly rising from his back.

It hurt. More than he liked to admit.

The new Robin, Damian, was not the same. His wings were exotic, a bright green plumage that shimmered in the light. Jason knew from seeing Talia's wings, that Damian would likely grow up to have dark, forest green feathers intermixed with those black-gray feathers like Bruce's. But now, the kid's wings were small and their shape different from the others. His flight would be more of a fast, diving kind. Somewhere between elegant and predatory. The league trained their warriors to be fast and agile, ready to swoop out of nowhere and make their kill before darting off into the night. Damian's wings reflected that training. They still had a while to grow, but at the moment, their emerald hue flashed brightly as he flew across the Gotham rooftops.

He was interested in – and jealous of – the others' wings. But none of them quite caught his eye as much as those of the quietest, most mysterious member of all the bats.

Cassandra Cain – Cass, the others called her, had black wings at first glance. But in reality they were iridescent jewel tones, shining, stunning shades of vivacious amethyst, dazzling emerald, stunning sapphire. They danced and swirled together atop her feathers, just as light and graceful as her own dances. When she danced, her wings moved in time with her, reaching and swooping and flaring in perfect sync, choreographed into her dance so well he would swear she knew they were there. Unlike everyone else's wings, that seemed to move as they pleased, reacting to and interacting with the wings of those around them or to their emotions, Cass' wings seemed to be on a different wavelength. He hadn't gotten to see her much, but she had always seemed a bit separate from the others. Not like him. Her wings were even more breathtaking then those of anyone else he'd ever seen. They moved along with her perfectly, and she looked like she could soar into the sky at any moment she pleased. Like she was from another world where wings were normal, and she was an angel who'd flown down here to join the rest of them.

Though if she was an angel with her wings, and the others were humans with theirs, he didn't want to know what that made him other then _wrong._

Another jerking sensation left him gasping for air and grasping for support. He swallowed, refusing to acknowledge the drops dripping down his back – or his cheeks.

He needed to get out. The bathroom – the whole safehouse felt claustrophobic, like he was going to try and get out of the room, but it's locked and he can't pick it and he's trapped and there's a bomb-

Yeah. He needs to get out. _Now_.

Standing up, he let go of his grip on the sink. His head swam as he did so and he stumbled on the way to the door, grabbing onto the frame to steady himself and trying to take deep enough breaths to keep from passing out. When it feels like you've gotten your back so ripped that your lungs are cut open, it gets a lot harder to breathe. Just in case anyone was curious.

Swallowing, he looked up to view the rest of the safehouse, eyes landing on the closest window. It was a terrible idea to go out onto the roof in this state, but he'd climbed on them ever since he was a kid and the thought of spending one more moment in an enclosed space was enough to make him nauseous, so he beelined for the window.

The window swung open smoothly, only the lightest hint of a creak that only he could hear. Then the fresh, cold Gotham air hit his face as the noise of Gotham assaulted his ears and he exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. This was already better.

Keeping his eyes closed, he climbed out of the window, hanging from one hand for a moment to close it behind him and finished making his way up the side. Climbing without his eyes had been challenging at one time. But he was used to it by now. He'd mastered the art back when he was Robin and the various training afterwards had made him an expert at doing almost anything without the benefit of sight.

Reaching the roof, he pulled himself into a sitting position, leaning back on his arms with his feet hanging over the edge and dangling above the open space. It was strange. Sometimes he got a strange kind of vertigo when he'd hang his legs in the air. Like the sudden irrational fear that he was going to somehow slip and fall into the abyss. Which made no sense, really, but he felt it most of the time anyway. The moment he'd stand up, feet solidly placed on something, the feeling faded.

Needless to say, he didn't grapple much anymore. Preferring to run across the rooftops and jump from one to the next - only hovering in space with nothing to catch him should he fall for a few moments before the soles of his boots would land firmly on the next rooftop. And the safety that came with that feeling was near indescribable.

But at times he wished he could feel comfortable in the air again. Looking up, with the cold wind blowing through the burning gouges in his back, he watched the gusts high in the sky toss and twist the gray Gotham clouds.

He watched – alone, damaged, flightless – from the ground far below.

~ * ~

Cass loved being outside. Flying through the air while on patrol and gliding from one building to the next. She giggled as she bounced on the edge of a ledge and waited for Dick's call.

"3... 2... 1... GO!"

Immediately, her siblings charged off the roof, capes spread and grapples readied in case they were to fall. Watching them in flight for a moment, she caught a glimpse of their wings spreading out to catch the air and smiled.

She had been confused at the reaction she got when she'd first mentioned them – when Steph hadn't understood what she meant by wings. She thought she was talking about the capes and laughed about how Batman's is very intimidating at times. That was when Cass realized the others didn't see them.

She didn't see them all the time. Just moments here and there, often when their emotions were strong, but other times as well. She hadn't expected to see them tonight.

Steph laughed and asked over the coms if she was coming, her pretty wings catching the wind and reminding Cass of light brown and the thick flowery fabric... what had Steph called it... lace?

In response, she simply flew off the edge herself, the cold air rippling through her feathers as a giddy thrill ran through her. The game tonight had a strange name... but the goal was to glide as far as you could without grappling, then use your grapple to swing to keep from touching the ground or the rooftops. The last person to touch the ground was the winner and named the next jumping spot.

Tonight she glided far, banking to the left and into the harder areas of Gotham. The places where the buildings were fairly uniform and not quite so tall. It was too easy to accidentally step foot on the ground over here. More fun. More dangerous. She loved it.

Soaring above the rooftops, she let her wings work the smallest bit. Nobody was around here. They wouldn't see her flying if they were.

It was _probably_ against the rules, but to be fair, the others used their wings as well. They just didn't realize it. And it felt _so good_. She couldn't say no.

Ten minutes later, she still hadn't touched the ground, but she heard the others get eliminated one by one. Only she, Dick, and Tim were still in – and Tim had just squawked in offense when his foot brushed against the side of a building. Now they were debating on if he was out or not. She simply smiled and grappled again, the rooftops spinning around her as she danced in the air.

A silhouette caught her eye. There was a person sitting on the edge of a roof somewhat nearby. Their body language was... confusing, but the pain and grief was clear even from this distance. She wondered in concern what was going through their head. Emotions that strong and people on the edges of buildings didn't tend to end well.

Adjusting her arc slightly, she flew to a closer building. It was easier to read small details the closer she was. The person wasn't facing her, so that made it harder to tell what was wrong.

She was mid-swing when she saw them. Two bleeding rips in the person's back where their wings should be.

She had to disconnect her grapple and drop into the alley below. She felt she was going to be sick. The ping signaling she was out of the game sounded faintly in her ears, but she barely noticed through the haze.

Their wings were gone. Gone. Torn out of them. Her stomach heaved and her head spun at the thought of it.

She didn't know how long it was before she stopped throwing up. Her throat burned. Tears were still on her face and down her neck. She felt weak and dizzy, her cowl having been discarded long ago. She was curled up in the dirty alley, and knew she should call for someone, but she was just too tired. There was a voice at the edge of her conscience. She only heard the notes of worry and concern, too exhausted and fuzzy to solve the words. They wouldn't hurt her. Then everything blurred together and she almost felt the sensation of being lifted before passing out.

~*~

Bruce found her on a rooftop. He had gotten her emergency beacon fifteen minutes ago and raced as fast as he could to get to her. She didn't call for help often. Almost never. Her trackers were active, but hadn't moved that entire time and the feeling of dread and worry was curling in his stomach.

A distress call tonight.

 _Tonight_.

Thoughts of what could have happened– Joker would get a kick out of murdering another child on the same day as the first. Her tracker wasn't moving. _She wasn't moving. No_.

When he got to her, and saw her laying there limp, his heart stopped in his chest. It didn't start again until he confirmed she was breathing.

She was alive. _Alive._

He held her close, listened to her breathing and her heartbeat, cried tears of joy. Tears of joy and sadness. Joy for his daughter, breathing and alive in his arms. Sadness for the child who hadn't been.

He cried. She breathed. The scrap of paper slipped from her hand.

The wind blew and the paper took flight.

The father's eyes were closed. The scrap was gone before one could blink.

Later, the wind died down, and the small piece landed. Filthy water from a puddle blurred the ink. A bicycle tire splashed through. The note vanished into the grimy alleyway. Just another abandoned piece of trash in this forgetful city.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this ended way differently then what I was expecting, but I think I'm satisfied. This AU ended up getting a lot of thought put into it, so I might consider writing more in this universe if this goes over well. 
> 
> Comments = Fic-writing energy. Use this power wisely.


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